Fight the Fairies
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: "Dean…Did you service Oberon, king of the fairies?" In which Dean, unable to deny it, remembers what happened during his very, very…very…close encounter.


 **Summary** : "Dean…Did you service Oberon, king of the fairies?" In which Dean, unable to deny it, remembers what happened during his very, very… _very_ …close encounter.

 **Rating** : T, for vivid description of male sexual organs and the act of fellatio.

 **Disclaimer** : I own no character of _Supernatural,_ but I do have some pretty nice ringtones.

 _"_ _Dean," Sam said, looking half-perturbed and half-choked up with suppressed laughter, "did you…service Oberon, king of the fairies?"_

 _The older Winchester brother opened his mouth as though to deny the thinly-veiled accusation, but just as quickly shut it, eyes going wide and haunted as he remembered his abduction:_

"UFO! UFO!"

He ran through the cornfield, trying to fend off the sharp green leaves that slapped at him as he raced past. "Close encounter! Close encounter! They're after me!" he screamed into his cell phone. The bright white light chased him relentlessly, right on his heels. Annoyance sparked in him at his brother's flippant, unhelpful response. "Empathy, Sam, empathy!"

A flash of insight led Dean to believe that he wasn't going to outrun this damned UFO. So he would have to do the next best thing: fight it.

He halted, breathing heavily, and pulled out his knife to complement his gun. His phone dropped abandoned to the ground. The light found him again, engulfed his lone figure, and Dean raised his weapons, shouting obscenities.

Suddenly Dean found himself in a very different place—but it wasn't at all what he expected. There were no cold metal operating tables, no humming machines with very pointy needles or camera tubes or dubious, bubbly liquids, and no little green men.

In fact, it was what appeared to be an open-air room: lavish tapestries in all bright colors hung from ceiling to floor, most drawn aside like curtains to reveal a bright, fairy-tale meadows and forests landscape; Parthenon-style pillars were painted like canvases, depicting realistic floral patterns that almost blended with the world outside; the floor was hard, but mismatched but complementing rugs and skins were laid out so that they overlapped and cushioned; several ornaments were on display—vases filled with more flowers, these sickeningly aromatic, making the air thick and difficult to breathe; and small figurines of people and animals carved from various materials such as painted wood or shiny gold or soft ivory. Although the room was bright enough from the sunlight that filtered in, the numerous candles placed at intervals high and low were lit, flames flickering and doing away with the last vestiges of shadow.

The more Dean stared around, the more the room was beginning to look like a temple.

He turned with his weapons raised, suddenly realizing that he hadn't moved since having appeared there, and was relieved to find that no one was standing behind him. There was only a king-sized feather bed, covered with a silky red duvet and a heap of plump pillows and cushions, and looking so invitingly soft that Dean had to forcibly remind himself of his situation.

"Oh, you're awake."

Dean whipped around, gun hand braced over his left, which clenched the knife threateningly. What he saw was _not_ what he expected.

A young man, slightly shorter and stockier than Dean, had entered stage left. His round, handsome face was framed by golden locks crowned with a wreath of dandelions and daisies; his teeth, revealed in a full-lipped smile, were pearly white; and his eyes were as blue as the morning sky. His skin was unblemished and tan, well-muscled—which was blatantly obvious considering this only clothes were a loose toga-like get-up and a pair of translucent, shimmering wings.

On second thought, the wings looked pretty damned real.

The monster took a step forward, but stopped short as Dean made a threatening gesture with the knife. Dean scowled when his only response was a laugh as clear and as musical as a bell.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Dean Winchester," said the stranger, smiling wryly. "Allow me to introduce myself."

"Yes," Dean smirked sarcastically. "Let me get your name, number, where the hell we are, and oh, how about how to kill you."

"My name is Oberon. King Oberon of the Fairies."

Dean blinked, mind gears grinding to a halt and making him unable to process this. "Wait, wh—what?"

"My wife, Titania, will be joining us soon. But until then, we could entertain ourselves." Oberon approached again, unafraid of Dean's arms.

Dean gave way, walking backwards. His gun was jammed, and he cursed under his breath. At least he still had his knife. But he wasn't about to let a gay fairy dude get close enough to him to use it.

Forgetting his surroundings, the backs of Dean's knees hit the bed, sending him tumbling onto the fluffy mattress. He sank into it and had trouble moving—and thought absurdly, _Is this what a turtle on its back feels like?_

Before he could correct his hold on his knife, Oberon was on top of him, pinning his wrists down. "I can't allow you to leave, Dean," he said, his breath smelling of something sweet, like honey and molasses. The strong odor made the hunter's brain go a little fuzzy. "Especially since you're just so beautiful. I shall make you," his voice dropped to a low whisper as he leaned forward to speak into Dean's ear, "my most dedicated worshiper."

"I don't," Dean mumbled slowly, brow pinched, losing track of his thought as his green eyes locked with Oberon's. For a moment, it seemed to him that the fairy king's eyes were changing color, shimmering and shifting like the shapes inside a kaleidoscope. He shook himself, realizing how uncomfortably close the man was, and attempted to shove him off. But the moment he tried to glare at Oberon his resistance melted away again.

He was so trance-like in his obedience that he didn't protest when Oberon began to remove his toga; didn't even notice the audience that was gathering at the open walls, partially hidden behind the pillars and giggling and tittering into their hands. Oberon, king of the fairies, cast aside his garments, revealing his perfectly-chiseled form, which was not unlike the famous Statue of David.

But Dean didn't notice any of that—only Oberon's shimmering eyes, which were colorfully reflected in his own. His face was mindlessly slack; his weapons held loosely in his hands, forgotten.

"Very good, Dean," the fairy king crooned. He reached forward and pushed a finger between Dean's plump lips, parting them.

The hunter pliantly did as was prompted, and ran his tongue along Oberon's fingertip, then sucked, wetting the appendage. With each stroke of Dean's tongue, the fairy's member twitched with anticipation and pleasure, slowly growing until it stuck out like a pole.

Keeping eye contact lest the spell break, Oberon moved forward—helped along by a few flits of his gay wings—until he was sitting lightly on Dean's chest. He wrapped his lithe fingers around the base of his shaft, and eased the throbbing organ forward to replace his fingers that were still sliding in and out of the hunter's wet, hot mouth.

Dean didn't resist.

He opened wider to allow Oberon's passage, mouth still slick with excess saliva. With a moan, Oberon pushed as deep as he could without choking his newest acquisition. Eye contact was a must, so he refrained from leaning his head back from the pleasure. The fairy king huffed out a breath, and then Dean began to suck greedily.

Mesmerized by the kaleidoscope irises of Oberon's, Dean ran his tongue along the length of the cock in his mouth, taking extra care to tip frequently at the slit on the head, which made Oberon moan indecently and his legs tremble like jelly.

But Oberon couldn't spend his seed just yet. He denied himself release and pulled out with an obscene pop from Dean's swollen lips.

"You're so beautiful," the king said reverently, running a finger along the stubble of Dean's jawline. "I'm going to make you feel good, too. You've earned it, Dean."

Dean didn't seem to hear him, enchanted as he was.

Oberon, with a few strokes of his powerful wings, moved off the bed and landed deftly on his toes. The hunter craned his neck forward a bit so as to follow the king's eyes. Strong hands palmed Dean's fit body, caressing him through his worn clothing. When the soft fingers reached the hem of Dean's shirt, Oberon pushed it up to reveal a smooth, muscled chest.

The fairy king brushed a thumb over one nipple, eliciting a breathy noise from Dean. Smiling softly and resisting the urge to look down and watch as the nipple peaked, Oberon pinched and pulled at it, enjoying feeling Dean squirm slightly under his touch. With his free hand, Oberon fondled Dean through his jeans. He gave a firm squeeze.

Dean moaned and threw his head back into the plush mattress, eyelids shuttering with pleasure. He took a breath and opened his eyes, only look directly above him.

A large square mirror hung over the bed, giving Dean a very nice view of himself being violated by a giant gay fairy king.

And suddenly Dean regained his senses.

"What the hell!" he shouted, flailing.

Oberon leapt back, momentarily startled. "Dean," he said soothingly. "Look at me, Dean. Look at me."

But Dean had figured it out already; he wasn't an idiot. He flung the hand that held his gun over his eyes and scrunched his lids shut for good measure, preventing himself from looking into the fairy king's eyes. He swung his knife every which way, and was savagely pleased to feel a slight resistance and a hiss of pain that meant he'd at least scratched his target.

Oberon quickly ascended into the air, well out of reach. Dean, unaware of this, continued swinging the knife as he stumbled around the room and demanded that Oberon return him to the real world. The fairy king clasped a hand over the red wound on his arm, brow furrowed angrily.

"You will _never_ go home!" he spat, voice pitching wildly and very unkingly.

That was a mistake, because Dean swiveled toward the sound and raised his gun, firing off rounds in quick succession. Oberon cursed and dove back to the ground, his now flaccid penis flopping every which way in the most ridiculous of manners.

But Dean could hear the soft flap of his wings and followed the sound, eyes still closed. His father had trained him well.

Oberon had cornered himself.

"Stop!" shouted a sudden voice.

And Dean froze mid-scream, trigger finger still half-pulled.

 _Oberon released a short breath and looked up to see his queen, Titania, standing between two pillars. She looked very angry—but didn't she always?_

 _"_ _What the hell is going on?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "I thought we had an agreement that we wouldn't capture our new toys without the other being present. And you've brought a hunter? How thick can you be, Oberon?"_

 _"_ _I had it under control," he said calmly._

 _"_ _I'm sure," Titania answered dryly, stalking forward. Her wings fluttered irritably. "Why don't you tell that to Puck? He's been shot!"_

 _"_ _I'm sure there's been minimal damage," Oberon answered flippantly, studying Dean. He wondered whether Dean would still feel his hands run across his body in that frozen state._

 _"_ _Don't even think about it," Titania glared, as though reading his mind. "I've had just about enough of you! You're so selfish!"_

 _"_ _Me, selfish?" Oberon said. "You're the one who fell in love with—"_

 _"_ _Don't! That's not what this is about!"_

 _"_ _You're the one—"_

 _"_ _I said—"_

 _"_ _Listen, I can't do this—"_

 _"_ _I can't always be the one who—"_

 _"_ _I've had it under con—"_

 _And so on and so forth, the argument continued for a solid half hour._

 _Of course, Titania won, and with a snap of her fingers, Dean was returned to the cornfield from which he had been taken._

For Dean, time resumed the instant her fingers had clicked.

His scream rang out across the field amid gunfire. Then he blinked and found that he had made it back to his own world, and ceased unleashing his fury, looking about as though afraid to find that Oberon were still with him.

But when it was clear that he was alone, Dean lowered his weapons.

He smacked his lips and then spit, looking extremely violated.

END


End file.
